Hohenheim & Belgarath Walk Into a Bar
by Khait Khepri
Summary: It's a bad joke in dire need of telling. So, how does a 400 year old Philosopher's Stone with emotional problems due to his 'immortality' react to the 7000 year old 'Eternal Man? Pre-FMA Manga, Pre-Belgariad, One Shot (Reader doesn't have to know the Belgariad to follow.)


Title: Hohenheim & Belgarath Walk Into a Bar

Summary: It's a bad joke in dire need of telling. So, how does a 400 year old Philosopher's Stone with emotional problems due to his 'immortality' react to the 7000 year old 'Eternal Man'? Pre-FMA Manga, Pre-Belgariad, One Shot (Reader doesn't have to know the Belgariad to follow.)

Rating: K

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or the Belgariad/Mallorean. This is merely for entertainment purposes.

.

He was tired. Truly tired. For nearly four hundred years he'd spent walking the earth alone. He had been forced to watch the cycle of life from birth to growth to decline to death depending on where he'd entered their lives. And, truthfully, he wanted to die.

It was hard to be alone.

Entering the out-of-the-way roadside tavern he'd happened upon in this equally out-of-the-way town, the golden haired man inspected the interior. It was as rustic as the rest of the town and just as quaint. The people in the town had seemed quite normal except for a slightly older style of dress and a less-than-modern style of buildings. The tavern itself had no electric lights and the majority of light came from the fire in the moderate sized fireplace and through windows featuring ill-glazed panes. He'd garnered a few odd looks for his clothing, but he was merely a traveler, nothing more, and had ignored the stares. Settling on a bench near the fire, he flicked his eyes to the old man across and a little over currently nursing a mug of ale and eating a rather simple meal of bread and cheese and some meat with gravy. The old man, perhaps in his seventies though Hohenheim could not rightfully place his age, looked up for a moment and connected gazes with him before tilting his head in a gesture of acknowledgement and returning to his meal.

The serving woman approaching distracted the human-shaped Stone. "Hello," she said in an odd accent, though he'd heard it in the town. "How can I be helping you?" It was a country-esque, uncultured and unschooled sort of speak and he found himself smiling at it slightly.

"I'd like something to eat and drink."

"You have coin?" Hohenheim took a moment and tugged out his wallet, but the woman looked at the money offered oddly. "No coin," she said pointedly. "No food."

"This is money," he said, showing her the notes. Surely they weren't so backward here to not accept paper money! The old man eyed the notes curiously, frowning. He also seemed to be taking in Hohenheim's mode of dress and style of bag.

"That ain't no money I've ever seen before," returned the woman with a huff. "Now, if you don't have the ability to pay, then you won't be getting food."

"Ah, give the man some food. I'll pay." Hohenheim's eyes darted to the old man, blue eyes curious and intent. His words, unlike the woman's were more educated despite what the aureate man could see of his clothing. He looked patched, as though his clothing had come from a number of places and had not been really replaced in ages. There was a medieval flare to his clothes, similar to the woman's, but he looked less neat than her. The tunic was dirty and the rust colored hood about his neck featured a yoke that covered his shoulders. About his waist was a length of rope he used as a belt. He'd not seen his pants or his boots, but if he stooped to look he would have discovered mismatched boots and rough woolen britches. Despite his unkempt appearance, Hohenheim could see that the image was almost contrived. The old man's hair was cropped short and snow white, and his full beard was similarly clipped neatly short and brushed. His lined face held a wisdom that older people sometimes gained and it seemed to Hohenheim that the man might actually be a good deal older than he appeared. He seemed rather fit and even scooted down to sit before the Stone. "I have the coin." He fished out a leather pouch and placed a few copper coins onto the table. The woman snatched it up and moved off to fill the order.

"You didn't have to do that," admonished Hohenheim.

The old man hummed and gave a wolfish smile. "I think I did. You're fairly odd for a place like this and I'm a curious old fellow." He took a sip of the brown liquid within his pewter tankard. "So. Who might you be?"

"My name is Van Hohenheim," returned the alchemist. "And you?"

"Oh, I have many names," digressed the man across from him. "Some of them even flattering. But you can call me Belgarath." His eyes seemed intent, curiously watching.

It was a name odder than even his own, but Hohenheim nodded anyway. "A pleasure to meet you. And thank you for the food."

"So, Van Hohenheim…"

"You can call me Hohenheim. I don't commonly use the 'Van'." Belgarath nodded in acquiescence.

"What are you doing up in these mountains in such odd clothes?"

"Travelling, actually. I've been just… moving here and there." They were momentarily interrupted by the woman returning, settling a plate similar to the half-cleaned one of Belgarath's and a mug of ale. "Thank you," he told her politely.

"All the manners of a Sendar," chuckled the old man as the woman moved on. The odd word caught Hohenheim's attention.

"Sendar?"

"You must have traveled far if you've never heard of Sendaria," mused Belgarath, scratching at his beard. "And even further if you've never heard of my name."

"I suppose you're famous around here?"

"Practically worldwide. There's a lot of codswallop about me out there, though. Half the stories are complete and utter foolishness. The other half isn't even close to what happened." He sounded disgusted, but did not seem to harp too long on it. "Ah, well… I am curious about you, though, Mister Hohenheim."

The alchemist picked at his food slightly, wondering where the old man was going with his chatter. Giving the man a slight smile, he shrugged. "There's nothing particularly important about me."

"I'd beg to differ." The surety in the tone made him pause mid-bite of some of the meat that tasted to be pork of some style. "Your clothes, your bearing, and even the color of your eyes. The very air about you. They aren't exactly normal. I've traveled for a _very_ long time, Mister Hohenheim, and I can say that you are not from any place I've ever been." He cleaned off his plate and shoved the platter to one side. "So, might I ask… What exactly are you?"

There were a hundred things he could have said to that and the voices within his head murmured in curious confusion at the sound of Belgarath's words. However, the Stone blankly asked, "Isn't that a bit rude?" He got a bark of laughter for it.

"Perhaps it is. Gods know that Pol would have twisted my ear off… before asking the same sort of questions."

"Pol?"

"Polgara. My daughter. She's got a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. And doesn't like me too much." He shrugged and signaled for another tankard of ale. "But, I would like an answer. You're not a regular fellow and that's interesting to me."

Hohenheim was busy trying to think of what it must be like to have a family. Homunculus had robbed him of that much. That twinge of wistfulness was quelled in the stark reminder he wasn't human. In the interim he daydreamed, Belgarath got his drink, paid the woman, and took a long draw from the foam-topped mug.

"I am a monster," he admitted quietly. He wasn't sure why. This man was younger than him but possessed a worldly air. Perhaps he was as well traveled as he claimed.

"You don't look very monster-like to me," mused his companion. Hohenheim let out a derisive chuckle, not looking up from his meal.

"I suppose not, but I am."

"And how, exactly, do you figure yourself a 'monster'?"

The alchemist weighed his words before giving an answer. "I can't die. I can't age. Everyone I ever knew growing up is long dead." He was met with a snort.

"Aren't you a cheery fellow? How old are you?" It was such a blasé attitude and the ageless Xerxian answered before he could stop himself.

"Last count was somewhere over three hundred years. Perhaps I'm getting close to four hundred now."

"Is that all?" The impudent answer made Hohenheim look up. "While I _am_ impressed by the number of years you've apparently lived, seeing as it's well over four times the average man's lifespan, that is hardly a number that could be considered _old_." He paused and considered it for a moment. "Well, at least not to me."

"I don't understand," Hohenheim said slowly.

"I suppose not. What with that odd paper money and those strange things on your face. You didn't even react to my name and everyone knows who _I_ am." Hohenheim thought that sounded a little self-important but held his tongue. The old man leaned in. "Boy, I am known by many names. Some of the more bandied about include 'Ancient One' and 'Eternal Man'. As I said, a lot of codswallop, but I can assure you I am _well_ over a paltry four centuries."

"And how old are you?" It was odd having a tinge of his teenage mulish temper flare, but this man was irritating him.

"Well, I'm seven thousand years old." The simple way he said it, weary and tired and yet confident and assured, made the Stone blink.

"That's impossible."

"And many men would say living to four hundred is impossible as well," countered Belgarath. "But here you are." He gave an expansive gesture as he said it and Hohenheim had to admit he had a point. Silently eating the rest of his food, which by that point had gotten cold, he considered the words.

"How have you lived so long, then?"

Belgarath gave a world-weary sigh and a mild noise of acknowledgement before falling silent. He then spoke. "When I was but a lad, I have no idea how old, I found my way under the apprenticeship of Aldur. He taught me some things, among which was how to read and write and hold a marginally intelligent conversation. Most importantly He taught me the Will and the Word." Hohenheim could hear the capitals as he sipped on his mug of ale. The old man studied him intently. "Most simpleminded folk call it 'sorcery', but that's a word people without knowledge of the art would call it. What the Will and the Word does is essentially you gather your will up and speak a word." He gave a sly grin. "And things happen. Not everyone can do it and, truthfully, those that do tend to live fairly long lives."

"Who is 'Aldur'?" asked Hohenheim, thinking over the information. A group of people who could apparently use some kind of magic and live for a very long time? It seemed preposterous, but he was enthralled.

"My Master." The weight of the words and respect present made the golden man wonder at him. "He is a God, one of the seven that made this world. He did not take on a people like the other Gods did, but He did take on disciples. Perhaps a bit reluctantly in my case. I was a rather precocious brat. And there have been others He's taken in. My daughter is another of His disciples."

He studied Hohenheim. "You seem very tired for someone who has only lived for such a short time. Why?"

"I've not really had anyone else around. People age and die and I sit unchanged."

"And that is why you think you're a monster?" Hohenheim sighed.

"No. It's because of what I am." The whispers in his mind grew a little louder. Some consoled and others muttered darkly.

"And what would that be?"

He seemed so wise and knowing. Hohenheim wondered if he might know a way to break his curse. So he began to quietly describe how he'd come to be and the souls of thousands he had within him. He was surprised when Belgarath did not seem to balk or recoil, merely watched his face darken in a strange mixture of pity and anger. Somehow, Hohenheim could sense it wasn't directed at him. When he fell quiet, Belgarath studied him for a while longer.

"That… is a very sad tale," he said gently. "I should know because I usually make my way in the world in the guise of a storyteller and have heard many stories. Perhaps the reason you are so tired is because you have no one to talk to. That knows your burdens."

"Perhaps," grunted Hohenheim, looking down at the table and nursing his tankard. "You don't seem very repulsed."

"If it were your friend, Homunculus, I might be a little less kind about the situation." The golden haired man looked up at the old imp-like man across from him. Imp-like, indeed, due to the rueful and somehow knowing grin on his lips. "Have no fear, though. I sincerely doubt you're nearly the monster you claim to be. But I can also see you're a stubborn fellow, so you'll probably not listen to me."

"So, you aren't interested in immortality?"

"When I've got seven thousand years under my belt? Don't be foolish," snorted the man in response to the wry and bemused statement. "Besides, I have no interest in killing except when I absolutely have to. Messes with too many things and I would rather not have to try and figure out exactly your purpose here and how I managed to muck it up."

Hohenheim laughed softly. "Well, I suppose I need to move on."

"As do I."

"Thank you for the meal. Is there some way I can repay you?"

Belgarath thought about it for a moment. "I suppose you can. I'd like to look at that paper money and it would be an interesting thing to keep as a memento."

Hohenheim was surprised by the old man's choice. "Alright." Fishing out a hundred sen bill, he handed it to the man and watched him look it over.

"Thank you. This might be one of the more interesting things I've have received in a while. You're from this… Amestris place?"

"No. I have passed through there, though."

"Well, I thank you for this. And for the company." They stood and moved towards the door. "Now," he sighed. "Time to move on."

"Yes."

"Take care and don't worry. I have a feeling you'll find your purpose soon enough." Hohenheim wondered if Belgarath's idea of 'soon enough' meant sometime in the next decade or next century. He moved to a horse, an old, placid nag from the looks of it, and undid the reigns from the post. "I think it's time I go check on my daughter. She probably has gotten quite bored of having no one to sharpen her tongue on." There was a fondness in the words, telling Hohenheim the man certainly loved this mysterious Polgara even if she didn't like him.

"And I need to move on as well."

"Have a save journey, Hohenheim."

"And you, too, Belgarath."

"Thank you. I've still a very long way to go until I can rest these old bones."

The two men parted ways. Belgarath moved the direction Hohenheim had come from while Hohenheim moved on the way he'd been heading. It was heartening to know that perhaps someone had known what it was like to live so long to see the world change around them. After a few minutes, the golden haired man looked over his shoulder and noticed he couldn't see the village anymore. Blinking in astonishment, he wondered if it had all been a dream. His belly still felt full and there was a flush of alcohol in his veins, so he supposed not. Walking on, he contemplated the encounter.

A month later, he found himself wandering through Resembool and meeting a girl-child by the name of Pinako. And after that, the ageless Stone found himself enjoying, for once, the life he had… until the year of nineteen oh-four when he gets wind of Homunculus's plans.

"_I have a feeling you'll find your purpose soon enough."_

That's what that strange old man had said. Hohenheim had thought he'd found it with Trisha and their sons. Now, he knew his real purpose. To stop Homunculus.


End file.
